


The bed warmed by the body

by MToddWebster (RembrandtsWife)



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Alcohol, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking, F/M, RPF, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Kisses, Sleepy Sex, Vaginal Sex, real person fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23020000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/MToddWebster
Summary: You have a six-foot-six, tipsy but not entirely drunken boyfriend who needs to be put to bed.
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Original Female Character(s), Andrew Hozier-Byrne/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 105





	The bed warmed by the body

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloriousthorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloriousthorn/gifts), [roosebolton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roosebolton/gifts).
  * Inspired by [after hours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23019955) by [roosebolton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roosebolton/pseuds/roosebolton). 



> So roosebolton and I were chatting about a certain picture of Hozier and sort of wove a collective fantasy around it. In a lull in the chat, I started writing up my version of the fantasy, and I was getting into it when I noticed he hadn't said anything for a while. I asked if he was writing and he said yes, and then I asked if he was writing a story based on our conversation and he said MAYBE, and then we had hysterics and shared our work with each other and agreed to post at the same time. So here's my version.

"Just a little further, love. Here, right here."

He giggles under his breath as you take him by the elbows and steer him into the bedroom. Just inside the door he sways alarmingly, then rights himself, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. "Shouldn't've had that last whiskey...."

"You deserved it." You come around in front of him and beckon him forward, sitting down on the bed. Smiling, he drops down beside you, putting a hand on your shoulder, and leans in for a kiss. His lips brush yours, smelling of the whiskey, and then he topples over like the tree he resembles, just topples right over on the bed.

"Oops." One green eye peers ruefully through a mess of curls. 

"Why don't you just get comfy and I'll join you in a minute."

"Okay."

He's drunk, but luckily, he's a biddable drunk, a cooperative if giggly tree. You strip off your dress, step out of your heels, and peel down your stockings before retreating into the bathroom. A few quick swipes with the pad takes off your makeup; you wipe your face a second time with cool water and then wipe with rose water. After using the toilet, you wash your hands and rinse out your mouth with the minty blue stuff.

When you go back to the bedroom, he's snoring gently, one arm under his head and his feet still hanging off the bed. He doesn't even notice when you ditch your bra and panties and pull on a night shirt. But when you sigh and go for the buckles on his boots, he wakes up enough to help you. 

Once his boots are off, he manages to stand up again long enough to undo his belt and wriggle out of his skinny black jeans. He flops back onto the bed still wearing his boxers and two shirts, but this time his head finds the pillow and his feet find the mattress, so it looks like that's as good as he's going to get. Which is fine. Having him in your bed is always fine.

You get into bed beside him and turn out the light. He's on top of the covers, and you're trying to get underneath them. "Honey. Honey. Get under the covers? There you go." He slides those long long legs under the covers and turns toward you as you burrow in. His chest is right there in front of you, fuzzy curls peeping out above his vest, and you can't resist the temptation to press your face right there, to nibble at the fuzz and inhale the smell of him--sweat, faded cologne, the smoke and alcohol mix of the club.

His chest vibrates with a low thrill of pleasure. One long hand curls around your waist, and you wriggle closer, raising your face for the kiss you know is coming. His breath smells of whiskey, but he tastes more like stout, bitter-black and almost chocolatey.

His lips slow down against yours, and his breathing deepens; then his eyelashes flutter open, and he gives you a dopey grin. "I'd like to, y'know... but too sleepy."

You kiss him, not trying to press the situation, just because his mouth is so soft and the little rueful smile he's giving you is so cute. "Wanna snuggle?"

"Absolutely."

You push at him gently to get him to lie on his back, then fit yourself against him, head in the hollow of his shoulder. He wraps his arms around you and sighs. "G'night, love."

"'Night."

You wake up to the sensation of lips on the back of your neck.

Soft lips and a hint of bristle. Warm breath. Long, warm hands resting gently on your waist while those soft lips wander your neck.

Oh.

You wiggle just a bit. Just enough to push back and--oh, yes. Yes, he is. His hands sweep up your ribs, just firmly enough not to tickle, while his lips nuzzle behind your ear, and yes, yes, you are. You realize he's naked now; he probably woke up having to pee, and came back like this, and his skin is warm and his hands cupping your breasts feel so good.

His mouth moves slowly against the side of your throat, sucking. His hands are fondling your breasts through your night shirt, and pretty soon you're really going to need them underneath, on your skin. You wiggle some more, laying your hands over his (his are so much bigger), and he takes the hint and pushes your night shirt out of the way, baring your breasts to the chill. At once your nipples crinkle up just that much harder and he finds them with deft, knowing fingers.

A careful pinch--a not so careful nip of your shoulder--and you cry out, feeling wetness gush between your thighs. He hums and presses his cock against you, fondling your nipples while you squirm and pant. You're about two seconds from grabbing his hand and moving it when he does it himself, splaying one hand across your belly as his fingers slide between your thighs into slick heat.

"Oh, fuck," he murmurs, rubbing gently. You sob with pleasure and he rubs a little harder, explores a little further. It feels so good as his fingers ease inside you, but not as good as it could.

"Want to--"

"Yes, uh-huh."

A shift of your spine, a lift of your leg, and he's deep inside you, groaning against your neck. You whimper at all the delicious sensations--his mouth on your neck, his hands back on your breasts, his warmth against your back, the fullness inside you. And that's before he starts to move.

He whispers in your ear as he fucks you, poetry filthier than any of his lyrics. You press the back of your hand to your mouth to muffle the feral moans rolling out of your throat. He pulls your hand away, threading his fingers between yours and holding on as his pace picks up. Your whole body is shaking in his arms and his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing--

Your orgasm tears your voice into a scream, turns your whole body rigid. That rigid flesh inside you bursts, and you hear him cry out with that full-chested noise that no other man ever made--louder than a moan, higher than a groan, open-mouthed and open-hearted. 

You realize you fell asleep for a moment. Reluctantly, you pull away; he grunts and lets you go. He probably fell asleep, too. "Be right back," you murmur, before slipping off to the bathroom. You use the toilet and finish up with a wet wash cloth.

He seems to have fallen asleep again already, but when you snuggle up to him, you can tell he's wiped himself clean. You only get one good whiff of spunk and sweat before you, too, have drifted back to sleep.


End file.
